A story

“And… WHAT… are those?”

“Ankle cuffs”, I answered nonchalantly.

“And what are they doing on the legs on the kitchen table?” you asked incredulously.

“Isn’t it obvious? To keep your legs apart when I put you over it. And fuck you.”

Your mouth opened to protest. I could sense your indignance, and it pleased me that you seemed to struggle to find words to express it.

So naturally, I teased you. Restating my intentions with a meticulousness that mocked your own flustered reaction.

“I’m going to undress you.”

“Then I’m going to bend you over the kitchen table.”

“Then I’m going to spank your bare little bottom until you’re all hot and pink.”

“And then I’m going to fuck you.”

Each successive sentence made your cheeks flush deeper. I knew beneath your bosom your heart would be thumping. Some ancient limbic reaction deep within your primitive mind preparing for flight or fight. Whilst the higher echelons of your intelligence rendered my words into your imagination, making your pussy tingle.

Three ancient competing urges. To run. Or resist. Or submit entirely. I can almost sense the possibilities cascading through your mind’s biochemical soup.

Is that fear you’re feeling? The trepidation of being captured? Made helpless?

Or are you going to resist and struggle? Do you want me to overpower you? To push you down upon the table, and pull your ankles apart until they’re cuffed?

Or maybe the strongest emotion you feel is lust? Somehow, the air molecules my voice sent lapping against your eardrums unleashing an avalanche, one that’s now thrumming through your nerves and flooding your veins. Stiffening your nipples and making your skin tingle.

Yet a lurker looking in from our garden would know nothing of this, merely seeing a perfect picture of domestic contentment. Just the two of us, sitting quietly around the kitchen table, bathed the warm spring sunshine streaming through the open patio doors. I sipping my tea, you scooping up small spoonfuls of muesli.

But if they waited, they’d notice your spoon drop. And then your jaw hanging open. Gaping. Surprised. Almost bewildered.

And if they lurk for just a little while longer, they’ll see me putting you over this very table. Kneeling down to fix the cuffs to your ankles. Then tugging open your buttocks with both hands to see how excited you’ve become.

“When?” you said at last.

It was obvious you’d spent the intervening silence imagining it.

“When I say so”, I answered firmly.

Was that look lust, or bratty indignance? No matter. I treat both the same way.

I could tell you to stand up right now. To undress before me. I could even tell you to stand before the table, reach down, and close the cuffs around your ankles. Would you like that? Following my instructions. Being obedient?

Or maybe I’ll send my instruction out of the blue, when you’re least expecting it. Perhaps one evening when I’m travelling home from the office. What a delight it would be to arrive in the kitchen, to find you lying over the tabletop, perfectly presented, and aching to be seen to.

Or would you find it more exciting if I took control? Suddenly grasping your wrist, leading you towards the kitchen. I could undress you myself. A stern expression silencing any dissent as you’re stripped naked in front of the garden windows. I don’t think the neighbours can see in. Though if I opened the patio doors, they might just be able to hear you.

I wonder, shall I cuff your wrists too? Or have you keep your hands on your head as I deal with you? Or maybe I’ll just pin them to the small of your back with my free hand when the time comes to smack your bottom.

I glance up from what I’m reading, and see you’re already squirming in your seat. Have you already made a mess in your panties?

Be assured, my inspection, when it comes, will be very thorough indeed. Not because your intimate little world is unfamiliar. Quite the contrary, I’m going to enjoy returning to some favourite places. My roaming fingers skimming over every tender fold and furrow. Every contour of your curves.

I shall kneel between your thighs and advance, until my nose nestles between your tender slit. So I can inhale deeply, and smell your moist florid scent. When I retreat, I will tug you open to explore your crevice of glistening vivid pink. I know I’ll find you leaking, almost aching to be filled. So I’ll remind you sternly, that you’re going to have to wait.

Because first I’m going to spank your bottom.

I’ll leave you squirming, frustratedly pulling at your bonds, when I go off to fetch the paddle, and a few other little treats. On my return, I make you wait some more, standing behind you to admire the view. Whispering. I wonder how wet I could you make you in this position, with just my voice alone. And my warm breath on the back on your neck.

I wonder if our neighbours can see us, and whether they’d be shocked or as aroused as you are.

I pull a wet wipe from its tube, and with both hands, tug your buttocks open, placing the cool damp tissue against within the crevice. I feel your struggle with humiliation as I wipe your bottom clean.

I’ve brought another little treat, your beautiful glass buttplug, it seems to shimmer in the sunbeams like a giant frozen raindrop. I open your mouth, and slip it between your pouting lips.

I grasp the paddle purposefully, rubbing the soft velvety side up and down your thighs, then back and forth across your bottom. Then between your open legs, smearing your excitement across the stiff leather blade.

Is this this what you want, my dear?

Your answer is obvious and assumed.

The spanks start.

Slow. Forceful. Smacks.

Cute pink puddles form on your pert pale cheeks.

Your yelps and moans are stifled by the obstruction filling your mouth.

I kneel behind you again, splaying your cheeks open with both hands, now feeling even warmer to the touch. I run my tongue between your globes, delicately tracing your crevice, circling the dimple of your bottom hole. I hear your muffled moans escalate as I lick you.

It makes me hard to think only I know this secret side of you. The high-flyer who gets her bare bottom smacked. Who comes home from work complaining of arselicking office politics,  powerless to prevent her lover’s tongue from exploring her bum over the kitchen table.

A sore, stinging bottom, with my firm tongue probing deeply in between. I can smell just how excited that makes you.

You taste so good my dear. You taste earthy, like a kind of primal lust.

I rise from my knees and pick up the paddle again. I can hear your little mew of disappointment. My left hand gathers your wrists against the small of your back. I feel your muscles flexing, trying to free yourself, but my grip is unbreakable.

I resume spanking. Slow, hard whacks, that make you moan and yelp.

I fetch the plug from your mouth, now glistening with your excited drool. You whimper as I place it against your bottom hole, then push it gently until it slowly slips inside.

I kneel behind you once more, splaying your spanked cheeks open once more, running my tongue between them. When I encounter the base of the plug, I grip it between my lips pushing it deeper then sucking it backwards.

The way you buck and struggle against your cuffs just makes me even harder.

I contemplate pulling your plug out completely, and filling the empty hole with my eager cock.

Or maybe I’ll just leave the plug in place, and slide myself into your hungry cunt.

I enter, so easily.

And I fuck you forcefully across the kitchen table. Quick, deep thrusts. Sometimes breaking the rhythm by halting inside, stopping just long enough to feel you gently clench around my cock.

When you look over your shoulder, your eyes sparkling and glaring, our glances seem to collide in a lusty conflagration.

We fuck until we both come across the kitchen table. Until we both sprawled and exhausted.

You see us naked, as we are.

A perfect picture of domestic contentment.




@spankingtheatre 2018